Demon Thief

by Darren Shan

  It’s hard to tell. I’m surrounded on all sides by panic. I count two, three, four dead children — then stop. I don’t want to know the numbers.

  The monster’s on top of a boy — Dave English, who was so afraid of death. The beast’s fingers are buried in Dave’s stomach. It’s gazing around, white eyes darting from one child to another. Like it’s choosing its next victim. Or looking for someone in particular.

  I’m getting ready to run again when I spot movement in the panel of grey light. A man steps through. Behind him is a blonde woman. Another woman after her, Indian, wearing a sari. Then a second, dark-skinned man.

  The Indian woman curses when she sees the corpses. Starts after the monster, her hands coming up, murder in her eyes.

  “Sharmila! No!” barks the first man. He’s old. He has a short beard and messy dark hair. A shabby suit.

  “We must stop this!” the Indian woman shouts.

  “No,” the man repeats, and I can tell by his tone that he’s accustomed to being obeyed.

  “Master . . .” the second man says uncertainly. He has the darkest skin I’ve ever seen, as if his mother was the night.

  “I know, Raz,” the first man snaps. “But we mustn’t kill him.”

  “The children,” the Indian woman snarls. “I will not stand by and let that demon murder all these children. That would be monstrous.”

  “She is right, master,” the black man says.

  “Oh, very well,” the man in the shabby suit grumbles. “We’ll save as many of the young as we can. We don’t want to be considered barbarians.” He laughs, then makes a signal for the others to spread out. “Work Cadaver back to the window and force him through. We’ll track him down again later.”

  This sudden appearance and surreal conversation have astonished me so much, I’m standing still instead of fleeing for safety. The monster — a demon, the woman said — has moved on from Dave English and is lolloping after a girl. She’s racing from it like an Olympic sprinter, but the monster’s legs are longer and it catches up with her in a couple of seconds. Reaches out with its long, hairy fingers . . . then recoils when the ground at its feet explodes upwards.

  The demon makes a high whistling sound, its head snapping around. It spots the four humans who came through the panel (or window, as the man called it). It glares at them, white eyes filled with fury and hate. They’re closing in on it from both sides, leaving a path to the window free. Pale blue light crackles from the black man’s fingertips — I guess he made the ground explode, distracting the monster and saving the girl.

  Art bites my right arm, hard. It’s the first time he’s ever bitten me. I get such a shock, I drop him and collapse on my butt. He lands with a heavy thud, rolls over, then crawls towards the demon, gurgling happily. He must think it’s some giant toy. He’s so anxious to play with it, he bit me so I’d release him.

  “Art!” I yell. “Come back! It’s . . .”

  The demon spots me. Its white eyes roll down and fix on Art. It gives a loud, high-pitched whistle. And then it’s running towards us, impossibly long steps. I barely have time to register fear — then it’s on us. It stoops, picks Art up with one hand, hisses like a nest of snakes.

  “No!” I cry, leaping at the demon, forgetting my fear, caring only about Art. I land on the monster’s left side. From a distance I thought its skin was leathery, but now I realize it’s more like an insect’s brittle shell. My fists crunch into it, knocking crinkly flakes loose. I’m yelling wildly, the way I always do when I get into a fight.

  I tug at its hairy arms — they feel like strands of seaweed — desperately reaching for Art. The demon hisses again, then knocks me aside. I land hard on my right arm. It twists beneath me and snaps. I roar with pain, but roll over and force myself back to my feet, woozy but determined to rescue Art.

  But the demon isn’t there. It’s racing towards the grey window, Art cradled in its arms, head down, legs a whirl of motion.

  “Beranabus!” the Indian woman shouts.

  “Let him go,” the leader of the quartet says.

  “But the child . . .”

  “Not our problem.”

  “Art!” I bellow, tears streaming from my eyes. It’s hopeless, but I run after the demon, praying for strength and speed to draw level with it before it reaches the window.

  The demon pauses at the panel of grey light. Looks back at the four adults. It hisses and shakes Art at them, mocking them. The hairs of its hands wrap around Art’s ankles, then snake up his legs. He’s giggling, tugging at the monster’s floppy ears, no idea of the danger he’s in. He drops his orange marbles — he’s found something better to play with.

  The Indian woman snarls and extends a hand towards the demon. She starts muttering the words of what sounds like a spell. Before she can complete it, the monster jumps at the window, hits the grey light and vanishes. Returns to whatever hellish place it came from — with Art.

  I sink to my knees, stunned, staring at the window. Around me — screams, sobbing, moans. The stench of blood and death. Calls from the village, as terrified adults race towards their stricken children, too late to help, only in time to mop up the blood.

  The four people who came through after the monster have gathered by the window. The light is pulsing again. The edges are throbbing inwards, turning white. The leader stands in front of the panel.

  “Do you think he’s waiting for us on the other side?” the dark-skinned man asks.

  The leader shrugs. “Only one way to find out.” He steps forward and disappears like the demon. The blonde woman follows, then the black man. The Indian woman pauses and looks around the field of misery. Her gaze rests on me. She winces. Starts to say something. Changes her mind and steps into the light.

  I’m dazed. Shaking from shock and the pain in my right arm. Silently staring at the grey light as it pulses quicker and quicker, the edges closing in. It’s about to collapse, break apart, become fragmented patches of light again.

  Fresh screams as parents find the remains of their children. A chorus of wails, growing by the second, becoming a wall of anguished sound. Some kids are still running. They don’t know it’s finished, that the monster’s gone, that the last victim was Art.

  I stumble towards the flickering window, wanting to believe there’s hope, that the Indian woman will reappear with Art in her arms. Art can’t be gone forever. I can’t have lost him. He’s my brother.

  I spot the marbles on the ground by the window. I pick them up, study their orange centers, then put them in my left pants pocket. I’m numb. Hardly aware of the throbbing pain in my broken arm.

  I think about Mom and Dad, how they’ll react when they return to find Paskinston in mourning, Art abducted. Mom’s last words to me echo inside my skull — “Look after your brother.” Dad calling me the best brother in the world, saying I’d take better care of Art than they could.

  But I didn’t. I let the demon take him.

  Staring into the heart of the grey light. I tune out the screams. Focus on the window. A voice whispers to me, a voice I haven’t heard for a year. Tells me what I must do. What it suggests is crazy. I should dismiss it immediately. But I can’t.

  The window is closing. Any second now, it’ll be gone. But if I step forward before it closes . . . chase after the demon . . . perhaps I can find Art, rescue him, bring him back home.

  Madness. Art’s probably dead already, slaughtered by the demon as soon as it escaped. Besides, I don’t know what lies on the other side of the window. Most likely more monsters like the one that took Art. I’ll almost certainly be killed. Even if I’m not, there’ll be no way back once the window breaks up. Mom and Dad will lose both their children. Double the sorrow. I should forget about it. Ignore the voice and its suicidal suggestion.

  But I can’t. Because they’ll blame me. They won’t want to, but the accusation will be there, in their eyes. A look that says, “You didn’t take care of him. He was your brother. You didn’t protect him. You let h
im go. It’s your fault.”

  The edges of the window bend inward. The grey light sputters. There’s no more time. I have to decide.

  I start to look back, wanting the window to close before I can act, to cheat myself of the chance to go after Art. But as my head turns, my feet move forward. Instinct makes me step through the grey light of the window — into the realm of the murderous demon.

  WALKING ON WATER

  THE greyness lasts a few seconds. Like a mist around me, except there’s no damp or cool sensation. Then it parts and I find myself surrounded by trees. A forest of crooked, twisted, pitiful trees.

  They’re howling.

  At first I think something else is making the horrible noise, like a mix of car brakes squealing and somebody sawing through metal. My brain tells me there are workmen nearby, or a weird animal. But then I see the trees moving, swaying weakly. There are holes in their dark, mottled bark. And the howls are coming from the holes. No question about it.

  I try applying logic to the situation, like Mr. Spock. The howls must be the wind blowing through the holes. Except there isn’t any wind. And I know — I know — that the trees are making the noise themselves. They’re alive. In pain. Howling with anger, hatred — and hunger.

  I look for the window but there’s nothing. Either you can’t see it from this side or it broke up into pieces while I was staring at the trees.

  I take a hesitant step forward. There’s a soft splashing sound. I look down. See water everywhere underfoot, covering the ground. I look again at the trees. I can’t see any roots. They’re all below the waterline.

  I crouch, trying to see how deep the water is. But it’s murky and muddy, and the trees block out most of the light. I stick a finger in. It slides down to the first knuckle, the second, the beginning of my palm. I push my hand in up to my wrist without touching anything solid. Stare at my hand, then my feet. I could be standing on a platform. Except I know —the same way I knew about the trees — that I’m not.

  I’m standing on the surface of the water!

  I rise quickly, fear setting in again, certain I’m about to drop and drown. But although water splashes when I move my feet, I don’t sink. I explore with my right foot, angling it downwards. It dips into the water. But when I bring it back up, level my foot and plant my sole down, the surface supports me.

  I take one step. Two. A third. It’s not the same as walking on land. More like walking across the floor of an inflatable castle. But somehow, impossibly, the water keeps me up.

  I smile at the craziness of it, then gasp as pain flares in my right arm. I’d completely forgotten about my broken limb. The sudden surge of pain reminds me that I’m walking wounded. I’ve never broken an arm before. It doesn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it’s certainly no picnic.

  I continue walking, trying to keep my arm from jolting. Easier said than done — the watery floor is uneven, hard to balance on. I don’t feel as if I’m going to fall, but I tilt left and right quite often. I have to use my arms to maintain my balance, which sets off the pain again.

  I deliberately don’t think about where I am or the impossibility of walking on water. I can’t care about stuff like that. I’m here to find Art. Nothing else matters. I can marvel at the rest of it once we’re both back home, safe.

  Yeah, like that’s gonna happen, an inner voice snickers.

  I ignore it. Try not to let the howls of the trees unsettle me. Stagger on in search of my kidnapped brother.

  The water has seeped through my shoes and socks, and is climbing up the legs of my trousers. I take no notice. I have bigger things to worry about.

  There’s no sign of the four humans, the demon or Art. And no way of tracking them. If we were in a normal forest, perhaps there would be footprints. But apart from ripples as I move across the water, the surface is smooth, unmarked.

  I haven’t seen any animals or birds. Only the trees. And there aren’t even leaves on those. I’d think they were dead if not for the howls, which echo relentlessly. The noise is like needles poking away at my eardrums.

  What now? the voice inside my head asks.

  “Keep walking,” I answer aloud, trying to drown out the howls of the trees. “They have to be here somewhere. I’ll find them.”

  Not necessarily. They might have gone through another window. Or maybe they didn’t come out the same place you did.

  “I’ll find them,” I insist.

  What if you don’t? There’s nothing to eat. Nowhere to aim for — every bit of this forest looks the same. And how will you sleep? The water might not hold you if you lie down. Even if it does, it’ll drench you to the bone.

  “I can sleep on the branches of a tree.”

  Maybe they eat humans, the voice suggests.

  “Don’t be stupid,” I mutter unconvincingly. “And there are probably fish in the water. I can catch one to eat.”

  Orit might catch you, the voice notes. There could be sharks. Underwater monsters. Waiting. Moving in for the kill. Underneath you right this min —

  “Shut up,” I growl.

  “Art!” I yell. “Art!”

  No answer. The screech of the trees would probably muf-fle his cry even if he was here and trying to call back. It’s hopeless. I’ll never find him. He’s probably dead anyway, ripped to pieces by the demon. I should try to find a way home. Worry about myself, not my doomed brother.

  But I can’t think that way. I won’t. I’ve got to believe he’s alive. The thought of returning home without Art (even if I knew how) is too awful to consider.

  I’ve no idea how long I’ve been here. My watch isn’t working — it stopped when I came through the grey window. Feels like a few hours. I’m wet, cold, miserable, alone. Trying hard not to think about Logan and the kids killed by the demon. Flinching every time my brain recycles an image of the bloodshed. I force myself to focus on other memories. There’s no time to deal with the massacre. I have to concentrate on finding Art.

  Some small orange patches of light are flashing several feet ahead of me. They began pulsing soon after I got here. They move with me as I wander the watery forest, keeping me company.

  I come to a semiclearing. The trees don’t grow so thickly together here. I can see the sky, gloomy and purplish. The sun shines dimly on my left-hand side — and a second sun shines weakly to my right!

  I rub my eyes and look again. The suns are still there. Not strong like the sun I’m used to. Smaller, duller. I’m not as amazed by the twin suns as I should be — the water and howling trees tipped me off to the fact that I wasn’t in my own world anymore. I wonder how day and night work here, or if there even is a night.

  As I’m staring upwards, several patches of pulsing light pass by. Different colors, shapes and sizes, slowly gliding along in the same direction. I look around and notice other patches floating through the trees, converging on a point far off to my left. Without any kind of trail, I’ve been walking aimlessly. Now I decide to follow the moving lights.

  Maybe an hour later I spot the four humans who came through the window after the demon. They’re standing in a clearing, the old bearded man slightly apart from the others. I think he’s muttering a spell, hands wriggling by his sides. He’s the focus for the moving, pulsing lights. They’re gathering in the space ahead of him, slotting together, forming a window like the one in the village field.

  I creep up without them seeing me.

  “. . . still say we should have killed him,” the Indian woman is saying. “It was not right, letting him murder the children and take one of them. We are supposed to protect people. That is our duty.”

  “The master knows what he is doing,” the black man says. “He would not have let the demon go without good cause.”

  “You’ll get used to people dying,” the young blonde woman says. “Beranabus isn’t interested in saving the lives of a few individuals. He doesn’t have time for trivialities.”

  “Trivialities?” the Indian woman explodes. “Yo
u call the loss of human life a trivi —”

  “No,” the younger woman interrupts. “That’s what Be-ranabus calls it. He says we serve a greater purpose, that our mission is nothing less than the protection of mankind itself. He says we can’t worry about every human killed by demons, or waste time chasing strays. He doesn’t mind you all doing it, but we —”

  “I’m trying to work!” the elderly man — Beranabus —barks, turning angrily. “If you’d stop chattering like monkeys, maybe I could . . .” He sees me and stops. “Who the hell is that?”

  The others whirl around defensively. They pause when they see me.

  “He doesn’t look like a demon,” the black man says.

  “Some don’t,” the young woman growls. “A few can take human form. You have to be careful.” She raises her right hand. I sense power in her fingertips. Power directed at me.

  “No!” I cry. “Don’t hurt me! I’m not a demon! I’m Kernel Fleck!”

  The young woman’s fingers curl inward, holding back the magical power which she was about to unleash. She frowns. “He doesn’t sound like a demon.”

  “It is the boy from the village,” the Indian woman says. “He was with the child Cadaver kidnapped.” She smiles at me. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” I squeak nervously.

  “What’s he doing here?” Beranabus huffs.

  “I imagine he came through the window after us,” the In-dian woman says. “In search of his brother, perhaps?” She arches an eyebrow questioningly at me.

  “Yes. The monster — demon — stole my brother, Art. I came to get him back.”

  “Nonsense,” Beranabus snorts. “It will have slaughtered and devoured him by now.”

  “Beranabus!” the Indian woman hisses. “Do not say such a thing!”

  “Why not? It’s true.”

  “You do not know that. And even if it is, you should not say it. Not in front of . . .” She nods at me.

  Beranabus laughs. “If the child was bold enough to follow us, he’s bold enough to be told the truth. Isn’t that right, boy? We don’t have to lie. You’d rather we were honest about it, aye?”

  “Art isn’t dead,” I say, my voice trembling. “He’s alive. I’m going to get him back.”